


true seeing

by weatheredlaw



Series: natural one [2]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dungeons and Dragons, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Blood and Injury, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Mild Language, Minor Violence, POV Alternating
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-11
Updated: 2019-04-27
Packaged: 2019-05-05 10:12:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14616155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weatheredlaw/pseuds/weatheredlaw
Summary: Reunited with his sister, Church continues searching for his father. But while the man seems to slip further from his grasp, Caboose inches closer to something a little like destiny. Meanwhile, Donut tries to hold his misfit family together, and Tucker eagerly closes the distance between himself and his son.





	1. jack of all trades

**Author's Note:**

> this au continues! i'm slowly working in how freelancer and AI stuff goes with all this, but my main focus, as per usual, remains on the blood gulch crew & friends. once again, this series pulls from a lot of different fantasy things i love, but takes the bulk of its inspiration from d&d and my self-indulgence.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tucker gives something up. Donut adds a party member. Church and Tex reconnect.

_Men are flawed. They do not remember history, and they do not remember it right. But you — you were born with an ancient gift, to remember the way things were, the way things have been, and to know how they may be. When the world forgets, it is your responsibility to remember, to catalogue, to retell._

_You hold the story of the world in your hands. Take care of it._

_— excerpt from the College of Lore's mission statement_

 

* * *

 

There’s an air of peacefulness here, even though it’s a bustling city. Tucker takes a deep breath and gets — spices, fruit, roasted meat, caramel apples, _taffy_.

It’s a Harvest Festival.

It’s a big, _beautiful_ festival, and Wash looks nauseous.

Tucker nudges him with his elbow. “Hey, cheer up.”

“I _really_ don’t feel good.” He’s mentioned this a couple of times, and he doesn’t really strike Tucker as one to complain.

“Uh, okay. Okay, let’s get you somewhere.” Tucker puts an arm around him and navigates them to the closest inn. The woman renting rooms takes one look at them, though, and pushes Tucker’s coin back across the counter.

“No can do with that one.”

“Hey, come on!” Tucker tries to hoist Wash up to a standing position. “He’s okay.”

“He’s got _something_ and he’s not bringing it here.” She jerks her head. “Try the temple.”

Tucker sighs. “Which one?”

“That one.” She points to the symbol around his neck. “Crazy moon worshipper, right? Edge of town, it’s hard to see, but you’ll know it.”

“Thank you,” Tucker says and half carries Wash out of the inn. “Dude—” He puts a hand on his chest, hums a few notes of healing, which makes Wash groan and stand a little straighter. “Aren’t you supposed to know where these places are?”

“Very new to this,” he says, but he touches the symbol of Selune around his neck and focuses for a few seconds before nodding. “Alright. It’s this way.”

They skirt around the festival — the meat makes Wash gag — and find themselves in the darker part of town, barely making it through the door of the Temple of Selune before Wash pitches forward again.

“Oh gosh.” A human man shuffles forward and kneels down by Wash’s head. “ _That’s_ no good, is it?”

“He said he felt sick earlier today. It’s just been getting worse.”

The man nods. “Right.” He snaps his fingers and a few robed figures materialize, their shadowy hands lifting Wash and carrying him into another room. The man turns to Tucker and smiles. “It was smart of you to bring him here. We’ll have him _right_ as rain in no time. Can I get you a beverage? Or maybe you’d like to enjoy the festival? The evening is always an exciting time.”

Tucker’s a little bowed over by the man’s cheerfulness, but he says. “No, thanks. I’ll wait to see how he does. I could use a place to stay, if it’s available.”

“Certainly, certainly.” The man waves him through the temple and leads him into a room. “You two are our only guests tonight, so our home is yours…”

“Tucker.”

“Tucker it is, then.” He bows his head and closes the door behind him.

* * *

Tucker allows himself to sleep in for the first time since he and Wash separated from their friends. Wash is a notoriously early riser, and where Tucker would rather wait until _at least_ after sunrise, Wash is already up and ready to go by the time dawn is barely breaking over the horizon. So Tucker’s really not surprised when he wanders out into the temple and hears Wash talking with the man who took them in last night.

He even looks kind of thrilled to be there.

“Tucker! You’re up!”

Tucker nods and takes a cup of tea offered to him by one of the odd, spectral servants he met the night before. “Yeah. You seem healthy. And cheerful.”

“I feel a lot better. And, I’m catching up.” He gestures across the table. “This is Florida. We were in the Order together.”

“It’s Flowers now, Wash. Please.” Flowers extends a hand to Tucker, who takes it. “It’s always good to talk with old friends. And always nice to hear they’ve recovered. I’m so sorry you went through that Wash.”

“My own doing.”

“Your path was always going to be a trying one. How are you taking to your new devotion?”

“Well enough. I had no idea you were a follower of Selune.”

Flowers nods. “A handful of years ago. After I chose to leave the Order, I needed direction. Corman Keep was in need of a holy man, and I was in need of purpose. The Moonmaiden...found me.” He points. “That symbol around your neck looks ancient. May I see it?”

Wash touches it, briefly. Hesitates.

“You’ll have it back,” Flowers assures him.

“...Alright.” Tucker watches as he lifts the symbol over his head and passes it across the table. “It belonged to the cleric who saved me. I don’t know what he’ll do without it—”

“I’m sure another can be found. This one is truly special. See here?” Flowers turns it over. “I take it _Caboose_ was the family it belonged to?”

“Yes.”

“It must have been with them for ages. Very old metal. Classic craftsmanship. You don’t see symbols like this too often. Worth a fortune, too, I’ll bet.”

Something about that makes Tucker uneasy, and he can tell Wash is feeling the same way. He twitches his hand in his lap and the pitcher of juice spills across the table, flooding Flowers’ lap.

“Oh, _shoot._ ” The symbol fumbles from his hand. Wash snatches it up, loops the string around his neck. “Look at me, all these years later and I’m still knocking things over onto myself.” Flowers laughs. “Will you excuse me? I need to freshen up. Then maybe the three of us can check out that festival.” He leaves, taking his servants with him.

When the kitchen is empty, Tucker turns to Wash and says, “We need to get out of here,” right as Wash does.

He grins. “You get the same feeling I did?”

“Uh, yeah? Also, you have _terrible_ taste in friends. Like, Carolina? Fine. But this guy? How about we don’t hang out with anymore of your old Order buddies again.”

“No problem here. Let’s go.” They both get up from the table —

And Flowers is standing in the doorway.

“Leaving so soon?”

Tucker nods. “You know, we’re really kind of on a timetable. I’ve got somewhere sort of important to be? And Wash is—”

“I know what Wash is.” Flowers looks at him. “I never suspected you’d be the first one to break. Leave the Order, sure. After Connie was gone, you were sort of alone. I figured you’d go back to whatever hole in the ground most tieflings crawl out of. But I _never_ expected you to break your oath. And I never could have expected you to bring so much _gold_ , right here, and drop it in my lap.”

From behind his back, he produces Tucker’s rapier.

Tucker growls. “Hand that over.”

“Elven craftsmanship, no? Finely balanced, tuned like an instrument. Perfect weapon for Blade such as yourself. Particularly a _wanted_ Blade.”

Wash glances at him. Tucker rolls his eyes. “Let’s not go there, alright?”

“Alright, fine. _Formerly_ wanted Blade. But wanted by your old troup, am I right? You don’t just _leave_ the Blades of Valhalla and expect a handwave and a goodbye. You left with quite a bit of gold, and you left with this.”

Tucker snorts. “Yeah, you _really_ don’t have your story straight, dude. Fun fact? I didn’t leave my troup. They left me _behind._ And that sword? Doesn’t do what you think it does.”

Flowers laughs. “And what do I think it does, Tucker?”

Tucker shrugs. “Work.” And he draws back his hand, forcing the blade to dematerialize in Flowers’ grasp, and reappear in his hand. “Magic swords sometimes do that. What can I say?”

Flowers raises a brow. “Interesting.”

Wash laughs. “You haven’t changed a bit.”

“I find maintaining a consistent persona lets people know what to expect. But, you know better than anyone here, Wash. I sometimes do the unexpected.” He snaps his fingers and the spectral servants appear behind them, grabbing their arms and pulling them back. Flowers steps forward and, with a twist of his hand, yanks the symbol from Wash’s neck. “You shouldn’t have trusted me. That was your mistake. But! It was very nice to catch up!” He makes a face of genuine remorse. “I really hope there’s no hard feelings about this. A man’s gotta make a living!” He turns and waves over his shoulder. “Catch you later, boys!” And he steps forward through a spectral doorway and disappears.

* * *

After the servants have dissolved and Wash has finished swearing, they search the temple and find the real priest in charge, tied up in the wine cellar. They rouse him, get his story, and gather their things.

“I can’t believe I fell for that.”

Tucker’s heard him say this sixteen times, so he takes a book from his bag of holding, turns around, and hits Wash upside the head with it.

“ _Ow!_ ”

“Stop feeling sorry for yourself. We’ll find him. He used _dimension_ _door_ ,” Tucker says. “Like a fucking amateur. He zapped himself 500 feet out of here, and then ran as far as the servant spell could last before it wore off, which is only another couple hundred feet. Odds are he’s still in town, trying to find a way out.”

“He’s going to sell Caboose’s symbol.”

“Not before we find it.”

Wash frowns. “Can we?”

“ _Yes._ Of course we can.” Tucker swings his bag across his chest. “I’m a bard, baby. I’m good at _everything_. It’s a talent.”

“While that is _brilliant_ and _inspiring_ —”

“I don’t like your tone.”

“—we need a better plan than _being good at everything._ Flowers wasn’t a slouch when he was in the order.”

“Was he a thief?”

Wash frowns. “...No. He wasn’t. I mean the unsettling cheerfulness was always something he had, but stealing stuff wasn’t his game.”

Tucker shrugs. “People change. You should know,” he adds.

Wash raises a brow. “Yeah,” he says. “I guess I would.”

* * *

A few people in town have seen someone matching Flowers’ description, but they don’t have a lot of luck figuring out where he might have gone until a woman points to a speck of a caravan traveling away from Zhentil Keep.

Tucker yanks his lyre from its place on his back and says to Wash, “Grab my arm, and don’t let go.”

“Uh, why—” he starts to ask, but Tucker plucks the right notes and they’re suddenly five hundred feet ahead and the caravan is suddenly a lot closer.

“And _that’s_ how you dimension door!” he crows.

Wash lets go of him and draws his sword. “Brag about it later, we have to stop them!”

Tucker can see a few people on the caravan turn their heads, speak to one another. Flowers stands up on the end and shades his eyes against the sun to peer at them. Tucker sees him grinning and he kind of wants to beat it off his face, but he also really wants to know how one person stays so fucking cheerful. He swings his lyre back and pulls out his rapier.

Flower holds up a hand and the caravan stops. He jumps down as Wash and Tucker close the distance.

“You’re quick to act, bard.”

“You took something that doesn’t belong to you. Hand it over.”

Flowers laughs. “I really don’t think that a Blade of Valhalla should be schooling _me_ on taking things without asking, but—” He shrugs, reaches into his bag and pulls out a metal box. “If you really want it,” he says, “then maybe we can trade.”

Tucker grips the hilt of his rapier. “...This sword isn’t for sale.”

“Nor is it functional for anyone but you, it would seem. No, no. I’m interested in something a bit more valuable than that.”

Wash puts a hand on Tucker’s arm. “This is a bad idea. Just let him have it.”

“That belongs to _Caboose._ You’re just going to let him walk away with it?”

“Tucker, you don’t want to make a deal with him—”

“Let the boy speak...Fearnot.”

Wash looks at Flowers sharply, hisses something _awful_ at him. Flowers laughs.

“You still have _spunk_ , Wash. I always liked you.” He turns back to Tucker. “I’ll give you the symbol,” he says. “If you give me a song.”

Tucker falters. “A _song?_ ”

Flowers nods. “That’s right. You play me a song, and then it belongs to me. You forget where you heard it, you forget why you knew it. You forget the words, the notes, and everything in between.” He opens the box and pulls out the symbol of Selune, dangling it between his fingers. “You do that, and Wash here can have this back.”

Wash grips his arm tighter. “Don’t—”

“Alright.” Tucker sheathes his rapier, takes his lyre from his back. “I’ll do it.”

Flowers grins. “Excellent! I love this. I love _you_ , I really do.”

Tucker sighs and strums a chord.

“Something important,” Flowers says, earnestly. “Not life changing, but something that matters.” He holds up the symbol. “In exchange for something _else_ that matters.”

“Right.” Tucker closes his eyes, thinks on the songs he’s written, the people he’s written them for. He’s a bard, they’re _all_ important. But Flowers is looking at him expectantly, and he’s running out of time.

He sings, “ _Kiss the flame, let a righteous heart be free again, though my hands are very far away, I write to you dear Adelaide, dear Adelaide, my sweet Adelaide._ ”

Flowers puts a hand over his heart. “That is touching. And also mine.” He snaps his fingers, and Tucker feels a _pull_ at the corner of his mind, and suddenly —

He looks down at the lyre, a little confused as to why he’s pulled it out in the first place. Flowers tosses the symbol to Wash.

“A decent altercation, boys. And you never know, you might get that song back someday, Tucker.”

Tucker frowns. “What song?”

“Exactly.” Flowers looks at Wash. “I hope there’s no hard feelings. We did used to have fun together, didn’t we?”

“Different time,” Wash says, but he smiles.

“You know what caused it. You know why I couldn’t stay.”

Wash nods. “I know.”

“Then don’t hold this against me. Only...next time you meet someone from the old Order, don’t be so quick to trust, Wash. It’s not a very endearing quality.” He winks and hauls himself back into the caravan. “Alright then, fellas. Off we go.” The caravan begins to pull away. Tucker feels...tired.

As he sways on the spot, Wash puts out a hand to steady him. “You alright?”

“Uh, yeah. Yeah I’m fine.” He puts his lyre away. Feels kind of useless right now. “Symbol’s alright? Nothing weird about it? No curses? Traps?”

“I think it’s fine.”

Tucker nods. “Right. We should head back into town, get some supplies.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Wash loops the cord around his neck, places his hand over it for a moment before he asks, “Are you sure you’re alright? What you did was...you didn’t have to, Tucker.”

“That used to belong to Caboose. He gave that to you because he thought it was important. It’s not winding up with some sleazy cleric so he can pawn it for coin. It belongs with you.” Tucker turns and starts heading back into town. “I don’t wanna do this feelings shit anymore today, alright? I’m all good.”

Wash laughs. “Fair enough,” he says, and falls into step beside Tucker.

* * *

They’re sitting around a fire that night, well away from town. Wash turns to him and asks, “Who’s Adelaide?”

Tucker shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

 

* * *

 

Donut had never traveled with anyone before this. He’d spent most of his life on his family’s farm, until he woke up one day and realized there was no amount of gold anyone could pay him to live this way any longer. It’d been hard on his parents and his sisters, but he knew exactly what it was he wanted to do. He took most of what he had and he sold it, put that money toward a mandolin, and found a college that would take him.

Telling stories had always been one of his favorite things to do, and his mother had told him for years he had talent. He wasn’t always sure she meant it, but it’d been nice to hear.

Sometimes when they’re knee deep in trouble, Donut kind of misses the farm life. As he plays his mandolin and sends out a wave of psychic energy at an oncoming pack of wolves, he _really_ misses the farm life.

“Donut, stay on that left one!” Grif shouts. He swings his sword, casting a powerful smite at a wolf that lunges for him.

“No!” Sarge bellows. “Stay on the right one!”

“Stop confusing him!” Grif kicks at the wolf.

“Stop pretendin’ like you know strategy!”

“Stop acting like _you’re in charge!_ ”

From the back, Simmons yells, “Can we _please_ focus?” He swipes his quarterstaff and a swarm of thorny vines appear from a point under the wolves and yank them back. It’s a hard won victory, and Donut is close passing out when the last wolf lets out a how of pain as Grif spears it with his sword. He drops to one knee, breathing heavy. He has a bite wound in his arm and three heavy scrapes across his stomach.

Simmons puts a hand on his shoulder. The scratches knit back together and the bite wound stops bleeding. “You okay?”

Donut nods. “Sure,” he says. “Peachy.” Simmons’ hand moves down to help him stand.

As Donut gets to his feet, Grif sheaths his sword and closes the distance between himself and Sarge. “You are _not_ in charge of this fucking _disaster_ of a group.”

“Son, you have got no leadership experience whatsoever. I once led a _batallion_ —”

“In a war that ended without you,” Grif snaps. “I asked Donut to go left because he _had_ them. He got _hurt_ because you confused him.”

Sarge scowls. “He got hurt because you made a tactical error.”

“ _Dukhal!_ ” Grif shouts. _Orcish_ , Donut thinks. He doesn’t hear Grif speak it very often. “I swear, every fucking day you give me more of a reason to _leave_ your ass tied to a tree!”

“Enough!” Simmons shouts. “Stop it, both of you!” He turns to Grif. “You’re being _ridiculous._ Neither of you has a right to order Donut around, he’s perfectly capable of handling himself. Grif, tell Sarge you’re sorry—”

“Fuck him!”

“Sarge, you tell _Grif_ you’re sorry—”

“Eat shit and _die_ , half-breed!”

Grif shouts, draws his sword — and finds himself held back by a thick rope of vines.

Simmons grips his arm tight, his free hand glowing. “Stop it. We’re supposed to be a _team._ We’re supposed to have each other’s back.” He leans closer. Donut just barely hears him say, “Get it _together_ , Grif.”

“Tell _him_ —”

“No.” Simmons lets go. “I’m done mediating. You two need to work it out.”

Sarge huffs. “Nothin’ _to_ work out. He doesn’t like me, never has.” He sniffs and pockets one of the flasks he was using in the fight. “I won’t contradict your... _orders_ in battle if you...if you recognize I have some authority—”

“The military you once served was _dissolved._ It no longer _exists_ ,” Grif says. “You have _nothing._ You _are_ nothing—”

“Grif!” Simmons shoves him back. “That’s enough!”

“Don’t _touch_ me—”

Donut sighs. He plucks a few notes on his mandolin as Simmons now joins the fight, and the three of them begin shouting, each trying to be louder than the other. He closes his eyes, starting to hum a quiet tune.

He learned during his first months at the College how to calm the people around him. He took to it quite quickly, actually. There was something about knowing a song that could _change_ the air, could relax muscle and soothe aching hearts. That’s what he feels, now — Grif’s pain of being separated from his sister, working with Sarge who still sometimes says things he shouldn’t. Sarge’s pain of being a man out of time, of never being able to go back to his home, trying to make Grif understand.

And then Simmons’ pain, of not knowing what to do, not knowing where to stand.

Donut plays a song, casts his magic out, and the fighting begins to wane.

Simmons smiles at him, looking grateful. Grif unclenches his fists and steps back. Sarge’s stance relaxes.

“I’m just...tired,” Grif says. “I’m sorry, sir. I...I shouldn’t have shouted.”

Sarge grunts. “No apology necessary. Shouldn’t have...said what I said.” He glances toward Donut. “Your arm alright, son?”

“Yep.”

“Good.” He sniffs and turns away from them, walking toward the wolves and picking through them, seeing what bits and parts he can salvage.

Donut sits down and keeps playing, if only to listen to something other than Grif and Simmons muttering to one another under their breaths.

He doesn’t like to eavesdrop, but it’s not his fault the hearing in his right ear is _exceptional._

“—have to stay calm.”

“Then _tell him_ to stop with the half-breed shit—”

“Please stop putting me in the middle of this,” Simmons says. “I love you, I do, but you need to deal with this on your own. I can’t fix this. I’m sorry,” he adds, and Donut sees him reach out and cup Grif’s cheek. “I’m sorry you feel this way. I’m sorry you’re upset.”

“I know you are. _I know._ ” Grif leans forward and kisses him.

Donut plays a little louder.

* * *

They walk in silence down the road. Donut has a map they bought a few days ago, after Sarge’s insistence that he knew a shorter way to the northern coast sent them _back_ several miles. That might _also_ explain why Grif seems to be out for blood a bit more than usual, but they’re heading in the right direction now.

“It’s really a _great_ day to cover some ground,” Donut says. They’re all quiet, but the tension is still there. Donut’s not too fond of it. He chatters for a bit, wandering from front to back. Only Simmons answers his questions, and eventually even he grows silent.

It’s getting close to nightfall when they make it over the crest of a hill and, before them, the city of Sigil lays spread out before them.

“A _proper_ city,” Sarge says.

Grif nods. “We could get a decent meal.”

“Stock up on supplies,” Simmons mutters.

Donut smiles. He’s glad they all finally agree on something.

They still have to _get_ to Sigil, and it’s at least another hour of walking through the thinly wooded forest that lays around the southern edge of the city. With a goal in mind, everyone’s spirits seem a bit lighter. It’s probably why they don’t notice what Donut does — Grif and Simmons are talking to one another, getting distracted, _teasing._ Sarge thinks he spots bear tracks and gets excited.

Donut looks to the left and see a man hanging from a tree.

“Holy _crap!_ ” He breaks away, running off the path. “You _guys!_ ” He runs toward the man, getting a better look at him. It’s not a proper noose around the man’s neck, so Donut isn’t surprised to get close to him and still hear him breathing. He pulls out a dagger and cuts through the rope, holding the man’s legs and lowering him to the ground.

“Donut, what the hell?” Grif runs toward him. “What are you doing?”

“He’s alive!”

“What the fuck?” Simmons kneels down next to the two of them, reaching out and touching the man’s shoulder. “Shit, you’re right.”

Grif and Sarge keep their distance. Sarge says gruffly, “Did you consider the fact that he might wake up and not be as well _intentioned_ as you, Donut?”

Grif shakes his head. “I _cannot_ believe I’m agreeing with you, but that’s an excellent fucking point, sir.”

Donut waves a hand at them. “I’m sure he’ll appreciate it. Sarge, can we have one of the healing draughts?”

Sarge sighs. “I don’t _agree_ with this course of action, but—” He reaches into his pouch and pulls out a flask of blue liquid. “Fine.”

Donut and Simmons work together to tip the man’s head back and Donut pours the contents of the flask into his mouth.

It takes a few minutes, but eventually he begins to rouse. With a hearty gasp, he sits straight up and shouts, “ _Don’t touch that!_ ”

Donut stumbles back, startled. The man moves away from them, grasping at the dirt and leaves on the ground. He has a sword in a scabbard at his side, but when he goes for it, Simmons throws out a hand and the thin roots of a nearby sapling wrap around his wrist, stopping him.

“Hey!”

“Easy,” Donut says. “We’re just trying to help.”

“Who...who are you?”

“We’re friends,” Donut says brightly. “We saw you _hanging_ from that tree—” Donut points to it. “—and we cut you down.”

“Friends is a bit much,” Simmons says quickly. “You, uh, _did_ seem like you needed help.” He reaches out and touches the bruising on the man’s neck. It glows, then begins to fade. “What’s your name?”

“Um.” The man looks down at his hands. “I don’t... _gosh._ I don’t remember.”

Grif points at the holy symbol hanging around his neck. “You’re a cleric.”

“And a classically trained healer,” Simmons says, suddenly grabbing the tools kit at the man’s side. “This stuff are _really_ high quality. Are you a doctor?”

“...I think so. I’m not sure—”

“Doc it is then,” Grif says, and goes to Simmons, pulling him to his feet. “Well, this sure was a lot of fun, but we really have somewhere to be—”

“Wait!” Doc lunges forward. “You can’t leave me! I...I need help—”

“And I think cutting you down from a _tree_ counts,” Grif says. “But we don’t _know you_ and we also have to keep moving.”

“I won’t slow you down, I swear. Where are you headed?”

“Sigil,” Donut says. “Just through these woods.”

Doc nods. “Let me travel with you. Just until we get there. I’ll leave you alone after that, I promise. I just...I need to get my story straight. I need time to remember. I’m sorry, I know this seems strange, but...please.”

Donut stands and reaches down to help Doc to his feet. “Of _course_ you can come with us.” He looks at the others. “Tell him he can come with us.”

Grif scowls. “ _Donut_ —”

“ _Tell him_ he can come with us,” Donut says.

Grif throws his hands up. “ _Fine._ But he’s your responsibility.”

“He’s a cleric,” Simmons says. “Not a dog.”

“Whatever.” Grif turns and heads back toward the road.

Sarge nods toward Doc. “Nice to meet you, I suppose. I’m Sarge, I’m in charge of these here idiots.”

“Yelling at people to do the opposite of what I say doesn’t make you a leader,” Grif mutters, but they all head back onto the road and head into Sigil.

* * *

Doc is a cleric of Kelemvor, and he finds one of their temples easily when they get into the city.

“I really appreciate what you did for me.”

Donut shrugs. “It wasn’t a big deal. I hope you get your memories back.”

“So do I.”

“I’ll come by in the morning, if that’s alright?”

Doc nods. “Of course. But, really. Thank you all, again. I really mean it.” He gives them a wave before heading into the temple.

They find a place to stay, renting one room and crowding into it. Donut curls up in a chair by the fire, plucking at his mandolin.

“I’m going to ask Doc to come with us,” he says.

Grif groans. “I fucking knew it.”

“We should try to help him. If he wants to travel, he shouldn’t do it alone.”

Simmons comes to sit in the chair next to him. “Donut, I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

“Why not? There’s already a precedent. When you needed help, Grif took care of you. And me! When I needed someone, you two didn’t say no! And Grif, even though you keep _saying_ you want to leave him somewhere, Sarge is still with us.”

“Damn right I am.”

Donut sighs. “Look. We’re kind of a gang of misfits. And if Doc could use anyone, it’s _us._ We helped that Church guy find his sister! We fought _undead_ and we’ve held our own hundreds of times. We’re _capable!_ Doc could totally use us to watch his back and stuff.”

Grif sits up on his elbows from his spot on one of the beds. “Fine,” he says. “But like I said, it’s your job to look after him.”

“I will.”

“And I’m not going on any stupid side quests for him. I need to get home. You got that?”

Donut nods. “Understood!”

“Alright.” Grif lays down again and sighs. “Can’t believe we’re adding another fuck up to this team.”

Simmons smiles. “I like it.”

Sarge nods. “Mmhm. It’s sort of like our theme.”

Grif rolls over. “I hate all of you,” he mutters, before falling asleep.

 

* * *

 

Beside him, Carolina sucks in a deep breath and grins. “Welcome to Elturel,” she says cheerfully, like they haven’t just spent the last nine days camping on the ground and walking through the rain. “Isn’t it great?”

“It’s a fuckin’ dream,” Church mutters. His back is killing him, he’s _hungry_ and _tired_ , and he wants to die. But this is a city, and he’s low on supplies. Once he has a shower and a nap, he’ll be fine, so he pulls Carolina toward a tavern and puts down the coin for two rooms.

“Okay, big spender.”

“I’m exhausted,” he says. “I desperately need to bathe. Please let me have my space for, like, half a day.”

Carolina raises a brow. “Alright,” she says. “A bath and a nap doesn’t sound so bad. How about we do our thing, and I’ll meet you here tonight for dinner, around seven?”

Church nods. “Deal.” He hands her the key to her room and goes to find his own.

Inside, he falls back on the bed and groans. Even a cheap tavern mattress is better than the bumpy rocks they’ve been sleeping on. Camping with Carolina isn’t the same as camping with Caboose or Tucker. For one thing, she wants to _connect._ Caboose was usually too tired by the end of the day to talk, and Tucker just didn’t care enough to ask questions.

With Carolina, every free moment is apparently a bonding moment, and while Church is more than happy to have found her, he could do with slowing down on all this _getting to know you_ shit.

Leave some things to the imagination, right? A nice, slow reveal.

He falls asleep before his shower, but it’s fine, really. Once he’s clean and dressed in fresh clothes, he counts his coin and heads out to the market stalls. There are plenty of things he could use here — he picks up some fresh pomegranate, a few colorful bird feathers and some rather interesting sand. You don’t run into spell components like these every day, and they all have their own interesting properties.

He’s feeling more like himself as he walks into a bookstore and buys a fresh spellbook — his most recent one is starting to fill up — and a new set of pens and ink.

When he steps back onto the street, he thinks about finding a blacksmith, someone who can tell him more about the sword Caboose left him —

And then he sees her.

Of course, if _he_ sees her, it means she sees _him._ Tex is never seen unless she wants to be. Church watches her slink into an alleyway and he follows. She seems to be gone when he gets there, but after a minute of standing in the shadows, her cool hands reach up and cover his eyes.

“Did you buy me anything?” she asks.

Church grins. “Only if you like fruit and duck feathers. And fancy paper.”

Tex pulls her hands away and turns him, pressing him against the wall. “I like all those things.”

“You just like things that don’t belong to you.”

She pouts. “Ownership is such a _monarchical_ concept, Leonard. Invented by kings it so they could collect taxes.” She kisses him. “It’s been a while.”

“Well, you like to disappear.”

“Like you _don’t_ ,” she murmurs.

Church laughs against her mouth. “Put my money back.”

“I think I’ll hold onto it for a while. Call it an...insurance policy.” She steps back. “It’ll keep me honest. I’ll find you tonight and give it back.”

“Then you should really be giving me _your_ money,” he says.

Tex laughs and kisses his forehead. “Close your eyes.”

Church does as he’s told. “It’s not a magic trick if you just walk away.”

“I’ll find you tonight,” she says. “I think you and I have a lot of catching up to do.”

Church sighs. He counts to ten. He opens his eyes.

The alley is empty, and she’s left with most of his money.

If she doesn’t keep her promise, then all he’s done since the last time he saw her is go softer.

And if she figures that out — then there’s no telling what he might let her get away with.


	2. steady eye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caboose finds his way while Church and Carolina find some truth. Donut and Doc do some stargazing, and Wash takes a warning from Sheila.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i finally had inspiration to write! and this story continues! i hope you enjoy.

_Death is as natural as life, and essential to it. Kelemvor decrees: help those who fear death understand it, help those close to death pass peacefully into it, and above all else — keep alive those who have destinies not yet fulfilled._

 

* * *

 

Caboose had stopped in Waterdeep to buy a map and a compass. As he settles it on the soft grass of his campsite for the evening, both laid out in front of him, it makes him feel like a _real_ adventurer. Like his father.

“ _He traveled in his youth?_ ” Delta asks. Caboose rests the sword on the edge of the map and nods.

“Yep! A very long time ago. Before he met mom.”

“ _Your mother is human._ ”

“She is.”

“ _Forgive my bluntness, but I doubt she expected to outlive him._ ”

Caboose hesitates. It’s an unspoken tragedy in their family, that they will all outlive their mother by centuries. He couldn’t even imagine what it must have felt like before he and his sisters came along, when his mother was a young, _young_ human, falling in love with an elven adventurer and court wizard. She always talked about how dashing and diplomatic he was, but she never mentioned how much it must have hurt to know he would long outlive her.

And she never talked about how much it hurt when he didn’t.

“What do you know about Zelbross?” Caboose asks.

Delta answers without missing a beat. “ _Very little. They make pipes and it is a small hamlet. No more than a hundred and twenty people, at most. Why do you ask?_ ”

“Something’s...pulling me there. I think we should go.”

“ _I serve you, Caboose. You’re my wielder, now. I will go wherever you carry me._ ”

“That’s very nice of you, Delta.” Caboose leans forward and taps the little dot on his map that reads _Zelbross._ “We’ll get there tomorrow, I think.”

“ _Then you should get your rest. I will keep watch and wake you if I sense anything._ ”

Caboose puts away his map and lays down.

That night he dreams of home, but an older home, before his father had died. He dreams of sitting on his father’s lap and watching his mother feed one of the girls. There’s a large book in front of him and his father is showing him pictures of dragons.

“This one is gold,” he hears himself say, and his father chuckles.

“So close, _ivaebhin_. This one is brass.”

“No dragon talk so close to bed,” his mother says, and Caboose looks up to say something, but the face of his father is blank.

He opens his eyes as the sun comes up, and lays there for a while until Freckles comes to lick his cheeks.

* * *

He kills a rabbit and finds some eggs to make for breakfast. His dream from the night before has him a little shaken. That he doesn’t remember what his father looks like is what upsets him the most. He’s never thought about it before, but he was hardly seven when his father passed. He has vivid memories of things they used to do together — hunting and trapping, taking day trips into the Keep nearby.

But his face...it’s just _gone._

Caboose braces himself against the thoughts and keeps going. He needs to get to Zelbross. Something inside tells him. He touches his new symbol of Selune and says a silent prayer, as he does many times during the day. Always he hopes it will summon Sheila to him, that he will hear her voice and see her spectral form floating nearby.

“ _I believe you will see her again_ ,” Delta says gently.

“I really want to.”

“ _Divine spirits do not behave in any way you might expect._ ”

“Nothing really does,” Caboose says, and they continue on in silence.

They arrive outside Zelbross midday. Caboose crosses the threshold of the little hamlet and immediately feels strange. The energy here is tense, riddle with anxiety. People in the street keep their heads down, but in such a small place he is obviously a stranger to them. He easily finds his way to the only inn, telling Freckles to stay outside. He sits complacently on the ground and Caboose shoulders the door open.

All eyes immediately find him, but Caboose makes his way toward the bar and takes a seat.

The barkeep fixes him with a strange look, but eventually asks, “Need a drink, son?”

“An ale, please.”

“Aye.” The man pours. “Three copper.”

Caboose sets the coin on the bar and it’s snatched up right away, replaced by his drink. He swallows down almost half of it before he asks, “Is everything alright here?” He knows people are _really_ looking at him now, and the barkeep looks a little anxious.

“...Depends on what you mean by alright.”

“It’s not,” a woman says. “Don’t lie to the mayfly babe.”

Caboose head snaps toward her — he’s been called a _lot_ of things because of his heritage, but _mayfly babe_ is one he hasn’t heard in a while. Doesn’t understand it. Has no idea where it comes from. The woman is elven, with gnarled teeth and a weathered face. She clearly means no harm by it — her expression is soft, but Caboose bristles all the same.

She comes to him and puts a hand on his shoulder. “There’s a dragon nearby. Made its home just up the mountain.”

“A _brass_ dragon,” someone says. “It’s harmless.”

“Doesn’t mean it don’t scare the kidlets,” the woman snaps. “Can’t get rid of it. All it’ll want to do is talk and talk. That’s a brass dragon for ya.”

Caboose nods and finishes his drink. He drops a few more copper on the bar and stands.

“I’ll go talk to it then.”

The woman raises a brow. “No offense to you, halfway—”

“My name is Caboose,” he says. “And I am very good at talking to things.”

The woman stares, then nods, taking a step back. “Very sorry, sir. Meant nothin’ by it.”

“I know.” Caboose puts a hand on the hilt of his sword and walks out of the inn. Freckles immediately stands and follows after him. A few of the patrons from the inn trail behind.

“You can’t just _talk_ to a dragon!”

“You’re goin’ in there blind, boy!”

“Mark my words, we’ll have to go up there to fish his body from the mess.”

Caboose stops and turns to look at them. He’s taller than them all, by a lot, and he’s...in a mood. Still reeling from his dream, from _mayfly babe_ and _halfway_ — he draws his sword and holds it by his side.

It’s enough to make the crowd disperse. Caboose turns and begins walking toward the rocky hill outside the village.

“ _You were bothered by what they said._ ”

“I have nothing to be ashamed of.”

“ _Of course you don’t._ ” After a few minutes, Delta says, “ _I will admit I have heard ‘halfway’ before, but not the first._ ”

“Mayfly babe,” Caboose mutters. By now he’s sheathed Delta and begins climbing up the rocks, Freckles just a few feet ahead. “Mayflies...they mate and then disappear. It’s an insult to my father. Bad breeding.”

“ _It is ignorant._ ”

“It is what it is,” Caboose says. “Can we be quiet, now?”

“ _Of course._ ” Delta is silent the rest of the way up the hill. Caboose can smell something...odd. Not like rotting flesh, but it’s certainly unique. Delta says very quietly, “ _A dragon has a distinct scent. Not unpleasant, but unusual, still._ ”

“My father read to me about brass dragons. It was...a long time ago.”

“ _If there is anyone suited to conversation with a brass dragon, Caboose, I think it is you._ ”

Caboose smiles. He’s felt so strange, all day. He reaches down and touches the hilt of his sword. “Thanks, Delta.”

“ _You are quite welcome._ ”

* * *

The dragon’s lair is a network of twisting halls and corridors built into the mountain. Delta guides him through, until they reach a very large room with a towering ceiling and walls covered in art. At the end of the room rests the creature, larger than Caboose imagined, resting its chin on his arms and looking... _bored._

When Caboose approaches, it raises its head and seems to smile.

“ _Ah!_ Company at _last._ ”

Caboose isn’t sure if he should stay back. A dragon is still a _dragon_ , after all. But he came to Zelbross for a reason, and he knows this was why.

“Um, hello,” he says, and waves.

The dragon chuckles. “And such _polite_ company as well.” The dragon shifts and leans forward, it’s long neck stretching toward Caboose. Its scales are _beautiful_ , shining in the torch light of the room, and in the sun that streams through the holes that have been carved out above. “Tell me your name, half-elf.”

“Caboose.”

“ _Caboose_ ,” the dragon says. “I see you serve Selune. A noble goddess. She Who Guides, Moonmaiden, Our Lady of Silver. You are an...interesting choice in a servant. A trapper, not born to be a healer. Yet you have learned to do so, haven’t you?”

“Yes.” Caboose pauses. “Do...do _you_ have a name?”

“Of course!” The dragon bows his enormous head. “You may call me Doyle.”

“Um, okay.” Caboose settles down. “My dad told me brass dragons really like to talk about things they’re interested in. Is there anything you’ve been wanting to talk about?”

Doyle _grins_ now and reaches out, scooping Caboose and Freckles into his hand. “ _Yes_ , little half-elf. You see, I have all these _books_ , but I have no interest in reading them to _myself._ Would you be so kind as to let me read some to you?”

Caboose smiles as some of the books are lifted from their spot and float into his hands. “I would really like that,” he says and settles down again.

For hours that afternoon, he turns the pages while Doyle reads to him. He has a very lovely meal and some wine later in the day, and the dragon gives him a nice place to rest for the evening. In the morning, Caboose wakes to find not a dragon, but an older gentleman brandishing a wand and packing his things into a single, leather suitcase.

“Are you...Doyle?”

The man turns and grins. “I certainly am.”

“ _A true dragon can change shape at will_ ,” Delta says.

“Hmm. I sensed a few interesting spirits with you. I assumed they were connected to Selune.”

“Delta is very special.” Caboose steps closer. “Are you...leaving then?”

“Of course! That _is_ why you came here, isn’t it?” Caboose nods. “I feel _absolutely_ terrible, I didn’t mean to frighten the villagers. It’s obvious to me that Zelbross was _not_ the best place to indulge in my hobbies. I will find somewhere more trafficked by eager adventurers like yourself.” The last piece of art slips into the suitcase and it snaps shut. Doyle turns. “It was very nice to meet you, Caboose.”

“It was very nice to meet you, too!” Caboose feels better today, invigorated by the conversation, the decent rest. Meeting someone _good_ , without an agenda. “Thank you for understanding.”

Doyle nods. “And thank _you_ for listening.” He puts a hand on Caboose’s shoulder. “I won’t make you climb all the way down on your own, my boy, so you just close your eyes now. And,” he adds, “I certainly hope we meet again.”

“I do, too.” Caboose closes his eyes. When he opens them, he and Freckles are at the bottom of the mountain.

He doesn’t feel like going back into town, so he gathers his thoughts, grips the hilt of his sword, and continues on.

* * *

He’d left everyone behind to find his destiny. Talking to brass dragons about _art_ probably isn’t it, but it’s not a bad way to start. That night he looks over his map, but can’t decide on a place to go. Delta doesn’t press him for a destination — he’ll know where he needs to be when he gets there. He can feel that.

The moon is a beautiful waning crescent, and Caboose touches the symbol around his neck, says a prayer, and lays down to rest.

His sleep is fitful. In it, he sees a towering gate, like the one Church closed the night before Caboose left. He sees a man with dark hair, fading silver at the temples. When he turns, his eyes are a piercing green that _strike._ Like Carolina’s. Caboose wakes with a start, understanding immediately.

The man is Church’s father.

“Delta. _Delta._ ”

“ _I’m here, Caboose. I am always here._ ”

“I know where we need to go.” He tells Delta about his dream, and immediately begins to pack his things.

“ _Caboose, perhaps now is not the time_ —”

“No. I need to start walking. I can rest later.”

“ _...Alright. Do you know where he is?_ ”

“No. Not yet. But I’ve got a plan to figure it out.” He slings his pack over his shoulder and whistles for Freckles. “Come on, boy.

“I finally know what we’re supposed to do.”

 

* * *

 

Church sits straight up in bed, gasping for air, a name on his lips —

“ _Caboose!_ ”

Beside him, Tex rolls over, groaning in her sleep. “What are you _doing_ —”

But Church is scrambling out of bed, kneeling by his pack and pulling out the sword. Its hilt glimmers in the moonlight, but it’s still there, and it still doesn’t speak.

He doesn’t know why, but sometimes he half-expects Sheila’s voice to come out. Maybe it means he misses Delta. Or maybe it means he’s crazy.

Definitely doesn’t mean he misses Caboose. Or that he’s worried about him.

(It’s just a dream he keeps having. One where he has to pull Caboose from white flames that threaten to consume everything. It’s only a dream, it’s nothing special, it doesn’t _mean anything_ —)

“Who’s Caboose?”

Church turns. “ _What?_ ”

“Who is Caboose?”

Church puts the sword away and crawls back into bed. “No one. Go back to — _ow!_ What the _fuck?_ ” He massages the spot where Tex _pinched him_ , hard. “Are you fucking _twelve?_ ”

“You’re acting weird. Dish, Leonard.”

He scowls. “He’s just...someone I was traveling with.”

“Whoa. _You_ were traveling with someone?”

“Hey, I’m capable of it.”

Tex laughs. “I was surprised enough that you were traveling with your sister. But some random guy?”

“Look, he’s not just...some _random guy_. He was...I mean he helped me…” Church sighs. “I _guess_ he’s a friend.”

Tex blinks. “...Holy shit.”

“Stop that.”

“ _Holy shit._ ”

“Tex, I swear to _gods_ —”

“You have a _friend._ ” She puts a hand over his chest and pretends to feel for something. “Yep. I think it’s a little bigger.”

“I hate you. I actively hate you.”

She grins and rolls him over, straddling his waist. “Nah,” she says. “You fuckin’ love me.”

As she kisses him and Church melts into her, he acknowledges with a sigh — with a groan and a touch and a kiss of his own — he really fucking does.

* * *

She isn’t gone in the morning, which is kind of weird. Church sits up and she’s inspecting the sword, admiring the moonstone hilt.

“I love you,” he says. “But if you run off with that—”

“I’m a bitch,” she says. “But I’m not _that_ kind of bitch.” She comes to bed with the sword in her hands. “Did he give this to you?” Church nods. “Selune,” she murmurs, and touches the goddess’ symbol. “Must be a good guy.”

“He’s alright.”

“God, you are _so_ worried about him.”

“I’m not!”

Tex laughs and tosses the sword away, moving toward him. “You are,” she says, kissing his neck and shoulder. “It’s sweet.”

Church lets his head fall back. He doesn’t want to talk or think about anyone else right now. Tex is such a fleeting creature — she comes into his life and rushes out again and he just wants to hold onto her. She’s tried to kill him, stolen from him, lied to and cheated him for as long as he’s known her, but —

He _loves_ her. And if she didn’t feel the same way, she wouldn’t keep finding him, over and over again.

Eventually, though, she dresses and tells him she has to go.

Church does the same, and Tex hooks a hand around one of his suspenders and pulls him in.

“You dress like a big dork, wizard.”

“It’s called style. Wouldn’t expect you to understand—” She cuts him off with a kiss.

“I love you,” she says.

“I love you, too.”

“I’ll see you soon, I think. Dunno,” she mutters. “I just...feel it.”

Church nods. “Well, I’ll look for you.”

“Maybe I’ll let you see me,” she says. “Now. Close your eyes.”

Church does. He feels her hands slip away, but he keeps his eyes shut, holding onto the last image of her in his mind, fingers still tingling with warmth.

His eyes are still closed when Carolina knocks on his door, and tells him she’s ready to go.

* * *

He met Tex years ago, when he was still studying. She’d crawled through the window of their library, but it hadn’t been the first time. The library had been his jurisdiction then. When he noticed a few valuable tomes missing, he took matters into his own hands. It was the only time he saw her make a mistake. Weeks of being allowed to sneak in and out undetected had made her complacent. She didn’t notice his near-invisible silver thread that told him when she’d come in.

She was rude and crude and _terrible_ — but Church fell, hard.

After she leaves that morning, he doesn’t say much. Carolina explains she might have a lead on the bard she’s looking for, and Church nods.

“And we’re close to Connie,” she adds.

“Connie. Right.”

Carolina puts a hand on his shoulder. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah.” He shrugs off her touch. “I’m fine.”

And it’s not a lie, really. He’s happy to be with her, happy to have a plan. But he always feels strange after Tex leaves, and he doesn’t like having the same dream over and over.

Church grips the hilt of Selune’s blade _tight._

He wonders if Caboose knows, somewhere, how safe this sword makes him feel.

They reach Connie in Waterdeep late that afternoon. She’s in her shop, finishing a sale as they come in. She looks up, surprised for a moment before she smiles wide.

“ _Carolina_.”

“Connie.” Carolina goes and embraces her. “You look good, you look _happy._ ”

“Gods, I am.” She looks at Church. “Nice to see you again, necromancer. Everyone appreciates what you did with the tower.” She frowns. “Your other friend passed through here, just a week ago. The half-elf? With the dog?”

“Caboose! Did you talk to him? Did he say anything—”

“No, I just saw him in the market, buying a map. He seemed very happy. I wanted to ask why he was alone, but I’m sure he has his reasons.”

Church feels his cheeks grow hot. Why does _everyone_ think Caboose can do whatever he’s doing by himself?

Why does Church think he can’t?

“Connie, we’re going after our father,” Carolina says, probably sensing how close Church is to flying off the edge. “I know you met him, a year or so ago. Church thinks he was the one who originally opened the gate in the tower. I need to know what else you remember. Anything he said to you.”

Connie sighs. Church had been focused on other things when he met her last. Now he can really get a read on her — tense shoulders, furrowed brow, anxious energy coming off of her in waves.

“We shouldn’t talk here,” she says, and moves to lock the door of her shop. “Go out the back, it takes you to my home. Wait for me there.”

* * *

When Connie enters, she bolts the door behind her and begins making tea.

“You have to understand, when I first met you, Church, I didn’t know what kind of necromancer you were. I didn’t know if I could trust you. You looked so much like him, but you were difficult to read. I told you about the tower, _hoping_ you were different, but I wasn’t sure until I found out that it’d been cleansed.” She turns, waiting for the kettle to boil. “Last year wasn’t the first time I met him. I knew it was him who’d opened the gate, because I was here when it happened.”

She looks at them both. “I helped him do it.”

Carolina slumps in her chair. “ _Connie._ Connie, why?”

“I’d just left the Order, I didn’t have the shop yet, or a coin to my name. You have to understand, when he came to me, he...he told me he knew what I was, what I’d been.” She looks shamefully at the ground. “He told me he knew I was powerful. Everything he said, it made me feel…”

“Wanted,” Church murmurs.

Connie looks up. “Yes. After I’d left the Order, I was having regrets. I thought I’d made the wrong choice. Helping him...it made me feel special. _He_ made me feel special.”

“He’s good at that,” Church says. “It isn’t your fault. You shouldn’t feel ashamed.”

“I do, though. I opened that gate alongside him. For a year I watched it, wrote to him about how it was behaving. Whatever he wanted from it, though, it wasn’t happening fast enough. Last year he came back, asked me to help him again. I refused. He pleaded, he told me his story, what he was trying to do. But I wouldn’t. He threatened me, my shop, but it was just words. He did what he wanted and left, because he knew I couldn’t do anything about it.”

Carolina leans forward. “And then you met Church. _This_ Church.”

“Yes. I told him about the tower, and I knew it was a risk. But I had to take it. Everything I’d tried to close the gate had failed. But then that bard showed up, and then you and the half-elf. All of it just...one thing right after the other.”

“Why didn’t you tell me all of this _then_?” Church asks.

“Shame,” she says. “It’s as simple as that. There’s nothing to lose, now that the gate is closed. And you can leave here thinking of me what you will, but I can’t change what I did. I can only decide now what I _do._ ”

Church scrubs a hand over his face. “I’m sure he was convincing.”

“He was... _powerful._ And I’d missed the magic of the Order, of our towers and our connection. When we opened that gate...it was almost like taking my oath again.”

Carolina folds her arms over her chest. “The past can’t be changed now. It’s good you’ve told us. Now we know how he’s been opening the gates in the first place.”

“He could do it by himself,” Church says. “It’s not impossible, I’ve studied it, I’ve done it myself. But the gate he opened in that tower was...it was a monster. He’d need a paladin or a cleric, someone with some kind of divine connection to their magic. Someone powerful.”

The kettle whistles, and Connie pours three cups and sits down. Tentatively, Church reaches across the table and touches her hand.

“I know it feels like you’ve been used, but he came to you because he knew you were strong. _That_ part wasn’t a lie.”

Connie’s thumb curls around, strokes his knuckles. “Thank you,” she says. “I’m glad you’re different.”

* * *

Connie gives them her spare room, and Church and Carolina sleep like parenthesis facing away from one another.

Into the darkness, Carolina says, “I wanted him to be proud of me. But he never approved of the Order. Whatever I did, whatever I told him, it wasn’t enough. Eventually, I stopped trying.”

“Bleed and bleed and bleed,” Church says.

Carolina laughs. “Almost a hundred years of trying to make him pay attention.” She falls silent again.

Church finally says, “I only saw him every few years. And whenever I did, I was...excited. I wanted to show him what I’d learned. He’d always give me just a little. I mean, he’d criticize and critique and ridicule everything. My technique, my form, all of it. But he’d give me just enough so I’d be hungry for more. So I’d _break_ myself trying to be perfect for him the next time.”

“Was it enough?”

“Of course it wasn’t. Why do you think I’m like this?” She laughs at that and Church smiles, rolling to his other side to find her looking at him. “When we find him, what are you going to say?”

“...I don’t know.”

“Yeah.” Church closes his eyes. “Me either.”

 

* * *

 

Donut goes to the temple of Kelemvor in the morning and finds Doc outside tending one of the gardens with a priest. He waves as he approaches, and Donut waves back, leaning on the low fence surrounding the flowers and vegetables.

“How do you feel?”

“Much better. My memory’s coming back.” Doc extends a hand. “I’m Frank.”

Donut grins. “I’m Franklin!”

Doc laughs and gestures for Donut to come around and inside the temple. They go into the kitchen and Doc hands him a cup of tea. “I wanted to say thank you for yesterday. One of the priests did what they could, but there are still some things I can’t really remember. I think they’ll come back to me, though.”

“That’s great!” Donut pours milk into his tea. “I wanted to ask if you knew where you were going next.”

Doc hesitates. “...No,” he says. “I don’t.”

“Then I’m officially invited you to travel with us.”

“...You mean that?”

“Yes! We’re heading to the coast right now, and it’ll take us some time to get there. Maybe the trip will help!”

Doc sits across from him, toying with the handle of his cup. “I don’t know...your friends didn’t seem so eager to have me just walk into Sigil with you.”

“I’ve already talked to them and they want you with us.”

Doc glances up. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.”

There are a few minutes of still, careful silence. A priest moves in and out, touches Doc’s shoulder and speaks to him in what Donut _thinks_ is elven, but...sounds different. Feylike, but unique. He realizes now that Doc’s ears are ever so slightly pointed. _Half-elf_ , he thinks.

Doc finally looks back at Donut and smiles. “I’ll come with you,” he says. “For a while. I’ll be as useful as I can manage, I promise.”

“I don’t doubt that,” Donut says, and lifts his cup.

* * *

They leave Sigil that morning and continue on. Doc is quiet, doesn’t introduce himself again to the others like he did with Donut, but he seems happy to be on the road. He proves useful in their first run-in with another pack of wolves, and he takes second watch with Donut that night.

“Thank you,” he says. “It’s been a while since I had a friend on my side.”

“Memories coming back?”

“A few, here and there. Nothing helpful.” He glances up at the stars. “I had a brother. I remember that.”

“I have some sisters,” Donut says. “Do you miss him?”

“He’s dead.”

“...Oh.”

Doc glances at him. “Don’t be sad. Death is inevitable, and it’s a part of life. Disciples of Kelemvor dedicate themselves to easing the pain of death and helping people understand that it’s not something to fear.”

“I like that,” Donut says.

“Kelemvor spoke to me when I was young and studying medicine. He told me to go to the temple, to put myself in the service of the priest there. There was a war between a few noble houses going on. Senseless violence, but men were still dying. I learned to ease their suffering, and to revive the ones who still had work to do.”

“That’s incredible.”

“Well.” Doc shrugs. “I was kind of crap at medicine. Magic, though.” He smiles, like a memory might be coming back to him. “Magic made sense. Still does,” he adds. “Even when everything else is a mess.”

 

* * *

 

Wash wakes in the night with a start, and finds himself not quite as he was.

Sitting at the foot of the bed is the shimmering, spectral form of Sheila, who is watching Tucker very closely.

“Is this a dream?”

“Selune’s realm,” she says absently. “You almost let the symbol go.”

Wash feels shame flood through him. “Florida is dangerous. I didn’t want Tucker to do something he’d regret.”

Sheila finally looks at him. “I understand.”

“I won’t let it happen again. I swear.”

The spirit finally smiles. “It wasn’t a threat, Fearnot. You will have to do far more than that to break _this_ oath. But, Selune...didn’t send me. I came on my own. When I felt the symbol pass into the hands of another, I grew anxious.” She glances down, and Wash realizes she’s wearing one of her own. “You and the necromancer are my last connection to Caboose. When I gave him the sword, I severed our link.”

Wash’s heart _sinks._ “...For good?”

“No. But it will take time to reconnect. Sometimes I sense him when he prays, but I can’t reach out to him.” She drifts toward Tucker in the other bed and touches his temple. “Good dreams,” she murmurs. “This one has a destiny. He is lucky to have you.” She turns to Wash. “I miss Caboose’s presence. I know he looks for me, but I am bound to your symbol, connected to the sword.” She presses her hand over her symbol. “Terrible things are coming.”

Wash sits up straighter. “What? Why didn’t you _lead_ with that? What’s happening?”

“I don’t have the same Sight as She does.”

“Selune? What does she know?”

“I shouldn’t really be here. I shouldn’t be warning you.”

Wash reaches out to try and pull her toward him, but his hand passes through. “Sheila, you have to tell me.”

“Deception. Sacrifice.” She reaches out and for some reason _she_ can touch _him._ Her cold, spectral hand grips his wrist, _tight_. “Your devotion will be tested. Everyone will have to make a choice.”

“Sheila, what—”

“She calls me back. I shouldn’t have come, but you and the necromancer are my last connection to Caboose. Protect the symbol. Protect yourselves. Trust no one, Fearnot.”

She disappears, and for the second time that night, Wash sits up in bed with a start.

He still feels the chill grip of her hand on his skin. By morning, a soft purple bruise has started to form.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> caboose's father calls him _ivaebhin_ which means 'boy filled with brightness' in elvish. it'll show up again i think.


	3. thunder monger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sarge lets go of a secret. Wash taps into his inner fiend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ohhhh my god i can't believe it took me TEN MONTHS to write this but it FUCKIN' DID anyway have fun. also the rating on this series has been lowered from mature to teen because i'm so focused on lore i can't make anyone be horny on main.

_Let all on whom my light falls be welcome if they desire to be so. As the silver moon waxes and wanes, so too does all life. Trust in my radiance, and know that all love alive under my light shall know my blessing. Turn to the moon, and I will be your true guide._

 

* * *

 

They arrive in Candlekeep late in the evening, find an inn, and get a few rooms. Sarge will be the first to admit — the one nice thing about having Doc around is now he gets a room of his own. Doc and Donut are thick as thieves, just a few days after meeting, and that works out fine for Sarge — though he sort of misses the gentle strum of Donut’s mandolin lulling him to sleep on the nights they don’t camp.

Grif and Simmons disappear into their own room tonight, while Doc and Donut head down to the bar. Sarge sticks to his own space — he needs to keep working on his companion, and there is a small... _aesthetic_ matter he needs to deal with.

Three hundred years ago, he was trapped in this form. In the weeks that have followed the day he met the boys, he has struggled constantly to maintain it. The day they met the paladins had been the hardest. The urge to shift and defend Donut, no matter what it cost, was almost _painful._ Since then, though, he’s done alright. But he can feel himself slipping, and if the bronze scales that are starting to make their way across his back and shoulder are any sign — he doesn’t have a lot of time.

He’ll have to shift out of this form and into his true self soon. An inn in the middle of Candlekeep is hardly the time or place, but in front of the boys doesn’t strike him as the best way to do it either.

Gods above, though, he _misses_ it. He misses his home, his little spot on the eastern coast. Sarge doubts it’s gone unoccupied. It was a brilliant location for a dragon’s lair.

And he misses being a _dragon._

* * *

Three hundred years ago, humans and orcs went to war. Everything had been so _clear_ back then. Orcs were destroying human cities, and Sarge had always been fond of humans. Call it a bronze dragon quirk, if you will. He took the form of a human constantly, and when they needed more bodies to help fight the war, he threw his lot in with them then, too. He never told them what he was, that’s not how things were supposed to be.

Even now, the urge to keep his true form hidden overwhelms him. He wants to help Grif get home, help Simmons be more confident. He even wants to help Doc, now that he feels he can trust him. But to reveal himself, to let go of his human form in front of them — it defies all logic. So he keeps his secret to himself, and waits for the right moment to let go.

In the morning, they all meet downstairs. Sarge had chanced a look in the mirror and seen that the steady march of scales was making its way toward his neck. He’s put everything he has into keeping these boys safe — _despite_ Grif’s ineptitude — and keeping his dragon form at bay.

He’s not sure how much longer he can hold it back.

A well placed scarf to protect him from the sun hides the bronze scales and no one says anything. They eat while Donut and Doc tell them about the people they met the night before, waving to complete strangers as they head back onto the road. Grif takes point, checking with his map as they keep going. Sarge won’t admit to not knowing this land as well as he used to — so he silently and begrudgingly lets Grif lead them down the path.

They run into another pack of wolves — the fourth in as many days — and dispense with them quickly enough.

Grif wipes blood from his sword on the nearby grass and says, “That’s too many wolves.”

“Beats draugr,” Donut says, fretting over a broken string. “ _Damn_.”

“Maybe it’s connected?” Simmons lets Doc heal the gash in his arm. “Like we’ve moved away from the epicenter of activity, but maybe it’s caused an imbalance.”

Sarge says nothing. He’s known this was the truth for a long time. He’s seen it before, when necromancers get too full of themselves. It’s why he, begrudgingly, admired Church. A _good_ necromancer doesn’t raise the dead for shits and giggles. They let them rest.

“I don’t sense any undead near here,” Doc says quietly. “But if we’re moving farther away from them, that has to be good.”

“If you ladies are all done _theorizin’_ , then we should get goin’.” Sarge brushes the dirt from his trousers, adjusting his pack and holstering his crossbow. He feels the sun beat down on the exposed skin of his neck and he covers it with a hand. The scales have crawled further up, now.

He probably only has another day to properly hold this form. Anything after that is a gamble.

* * *

He had a beautiful home on the southern coast. He could see the island of Chult, he could wake up to the waves crashing against the stone below.

He grew up among others of his kind, and they swam in the ocean and fought great battles. They forged powerful swords and armor, and gave them to the bravest warriors they knew.

Sometimes he thinks about the weapons they would have made for the boys — a falchion for Grif, and a sturdy scepter for Simmons. A slim, quick rapier for Donut. Doc likes his shield, and he seems good enough. It’s a nice distraction from dry itch starting up on his back.

Midday they take a path through the forest, but an hour in, the path starts to disappear, obscured by a strange, pale green fog.

“Church said there’d been some fog in Caboose’s village,” Simmons mutters. “Is this the same?”

“No.” Doc touches a nearby tree. “Still can’t sense any undead.”

“Something else is making this,” Grif says. He draws his sword. “Ugh, it smells.”

“Smells like _acid_ ,” Sarge says, and he knows what they’re walking into right away. “Turn around. Turn around, go back, we can’t _go_ this way—”

A heavy _thud_ sounds behind them, and Sarge recognizes the stench. A green —

“ _Dragon!_ ” Donut stumbles backwards. “Holy shit! Holy shit we’re gonna die—”

“You might,” the dragon says. It’s young, not quite matured, but that doesn’t make it any less terrifying. Sarge knows this. He knows because even though he is good, even though all he has ever wanted to do is _help_ , a dragon strikes fear into the hearts of everyone it meets. It’s why he’s been hesitant, it’s why he hasn’t wanted to reveal himself.

But green dragons are lying, acrid, _useless_ little shits, and he knows his boys might be able to take this one on, but he can’t be sure. And he can’t hold himself back any longer. Maybe this is selfish, maybe it’s what’s right, but he’s throwing off his weapons, his alchemy gear and he turns to them and says, “Y’all need to get back.”

And that’s when he does it.

That first second of letting go is _bliss_. The rest is just pain. Three hundred years of being held back, weeks of holding _himself_ back. It all releases in a wave of sparks. He feels his body swell, the scales spread, his neck grow long, the snout stretch. With a roar, he release a cone of lightening into the sky, and when he is done, he _towers_ over the young dragon.

The creature tries to flee. Of course he does, spreading his wings and trying to take to the skies. Sarge swipes at him and knocks him into a tree.

“Going somewhere?”

The green dragon cowers. _Good_ , Sarge thinks. It’s been a while since something feared him for a reason as good as this, as good as scales and claws and _teeth._ He grins and lowers himself to the green’s eye level.

“Were you lookin’ for a fight?”

“N-no. No, not at all.”

“Seems like you were. Hidin’ out here in the woods, waitin’ for unsuspecting folks.”

“Look, I—” Sarge puts an oversized claw on the green’s neck and he goes still.

“I ought to slice you up. Right here.”

“I’ll leave, I’ll go far away—”

Sarge _steps_ , and the green’s neck snaps like a twig underfoot.

“Like hell you will,” he growls.

When he steps off and back, he hears Donut shout. He turns, but his tail smacks into the trees. He’s too _big_ for this forest and he’s going to crush all of them if he isn’t careful. And he _must_ be careful.

But he also need to _reach._

Simmons calls out, “ _Sarge!_ ” but the sky calls louder. He pushes himself off the ground and takes to the air, wings outstretched, aiming for the sun. He expels _lightening_ into the sky, opens his mouth and _roars._

It feels just like it used to.

Just like it’s supposed to.

* * *

When he’s landed and shifted, the boys are going over the dragon’s body. Grif lifts its enormous jaw in the air a few times, then lets it fall.

“What a fun secret,” he says, and advances.

“ _Grif_ —” Simmons reaches for him, but Grif brushes him off.

“You fucking _helped_ them. Before someone stuck your sorry ass in a cave and _left you_ , you were helping them.”

Donut drops the claw he’s holding. “Grif, who are you talking about?”

“Humans! He’s a _bronze_ _dragon_ , Donut. Don’t you fucking read?”

“Grif.” Simmons gets to him, puts a hand on is shoulder. “That was centuries ago.”

“He’s not on our side! He doesn’t care about us!”

Sarge adjusts his pack, reaches back to touch his neck. No more scales. He feels _freer_ than he has in weeks. “Son, you don’t know what you’re sayin’—”

“Of course I don’t, right? Because I’ve just got filthy fucking orc blood running through me, so I must be a colossal fucking _idiot_ —”

“That war is _over_ ,” Sarge snaps. That’s the first time he’s admitted it. “Of course I helped. Of course I fought alongside them. It’s what we _did_ , it’s what we were born to do. I don’t know how many times I have to tell you, I don’t care who or what you are—”

Grif shoves him, and Sarge stumbles back.

“You think I haven’t heard that before? Huh?” Grif lunges, grabs him by the collar of his duster and _lifts_ him off the ground. “You think you’re the first person to tell me that? Why the _fuck_ should I believe you?”

Sarge looks him dead in the eyes. “Because _I’m_ still here.”

Grif blinks. Drops him to the ground with a thud before walking down the path and away from the green dragon’s body. Simmons sighs and gives Sarge a hand before heading after him. “ _Grif!_ _Grif, come back._ ”

Sarge watches them bicker before he turns to Donut, who is carefully dismembering the green dragon. He glances up sheepishly. “I just wanted some scales.”

“Careful of the blood. Burn your fingers clean off.”

“Gotcha.”

When he’s helped Donut get some of the scales, a few claws, and a handful of teeth into a bag, they catch up to Grif and Simmons.

“We wasted time,” Grif says. “We won’t make it to Loudwater tonight. We’ll have to camp.”

“That’ll be fun,” Donut says, but Grif’s already walking ahead.

* * *

In the middle of Grif’s watch that night, Sarge wakes up and comes to sit next to him. He doesn’t say anything, but Grif does offer him a cup with a fair amount of whiskey in it, and Sarge takes a generous sip.

“My dad left,” Grif says. “He always said he wouldn’t, and that he didn’t care what me and Kai were. But at the end of the day, it seemed like he did.”

“You live in a human town?”

“For the most part. My mom left when Kai was six. Dad said he’d stay, but…” Grif shrugs. “I’m not stupid. I know what it _means_ , you being what you are.”

“There’s no war left to fight, Grif. And I told you. I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

“Kind of wish you would,” Grif mutters, but he’s smiling. “I’m sorry for shouting. Shouldn’t have lost my temper.”

“Well it’s to be expected from a hot headed _paladin_ like yourself.”

Grif chuckles, easily produces a bit of light in the palm of his hand.

“Go back to bed, old man. I’ve got this one.”

 

* * *

 

Wash and Tucker don’t talk about Flowers after that day. They _do_ have someone enchant the symbol so it can’t be stolen when they reach a town called Selphir in the early morning. The encounter doesn’t seem to give Tucker much to think on — Wash asks once if he’s alright, if he needs to talk about what happened, but Tucker just wants to focus on getting to the coast. To his son.

“I bet he’s gonna be super smart,” Tucker says one afternoon. They’d been enjoying the silence of the open road for some time, passing only a handful of travelers, stopping once to buy fresh fruit from a man with a mule and cart. Tucker happily pops a berry into his mouth, turning to walk backwards with a skill Wash admires. _Bards_ , he thinks. “Way smarter than me.”

“You’re very smart, Tucker.”

“Eh.” He shrugs and passes the little container of berries to Wash, who takes a handful. “I’m just passably good at most things. You learn a lot of weird things at the College. Helps you to blend in.”

Wash sighs. “There are a lot of things you’re—”

_Boom._

Ahead of them, someone flies out of the tree line, slamming into a tree on the other side of the road. Tucker snaps his fingers and the berries disappear as he runs over, taking a knee besides the injured man and checking him over.

“Still breathing,” he says.

Wash nods and leans down, touching the man’s shoulder and passing on some of his healing energy.

The man groans and rolls to his side, spitting up blood. “ _Shit._ ” On the other side of the road, three men dressed a lot like him burst through the trees, panting.

“Lucas, you okay?”

“ _No_ , you assholes. I’m fucking _dying._ ”

“You’re not dying,” Tucker says, and helps him sit up. “What the fuck are you guys doing?”

“Dragon,” the man manages. “Bounty.” He waves a hand. “You get it.”

Wash does. “Dragons are dangerous, there’s only four of you, and you don’t look especially prepared.”

“See?” One of the men turns to the rest. “I fucking told you guys. We’re gonna fucking _die_ out here.”

“How much is your bounty?” Tucker asks.

Lucas reaches into a pouch, tugs out a scrap of paper. “Five hundred gold.”

“For a hundred, we’ll help you.” He stands straight.

Lucas chuckles. “Look, no offense, bard, but we’re not exactly in need of musical accompaniment.” Tucker raises a brow, then draws his sword. “When Rogers over there needs some background music, we’ll—”

The rapier flies across the clearing, sinking into a tree a good five inches. With an easy flick of his hand, it reappears by his side.

Lucas swallows.

Wash steps in and points at Tucker, then himself. “Swordsman, paladin. You could use us.”

 _And we could use the gold,_ are the words that go unspoken between himself and Tucker. Last town they were in, they realized they only had a handful of coins between them, most of it silver.

Lucas finally gets up, glancing at his companions. “...Alright,” he says, a little uneasy. Eighty, though. Not a hundred.”

Tucker extends a hand. “Deal.”

Rogers sighs. “Fine. Let’s get some rest and take it on in the morning.”

* * *

It’s been a long time since Wash fought a dragon. He feels _invigorated_ as they do, as he ducks its breath attack and is knocked down by its tail. But he’s a fucking _paladin._ He knows how to fight, how to attack and shield and defend. And ever since he took this oath, he feels... _different._

He feels like his old self again.

With six of them working at it, they take the creature down. It collapses into a heap of black scales and acrid blood and Tucker _whoops_ with excitement. Lucas seems to be in charge of this little group. He bosses the other three around and orders one of them to make a camp while their sorcerer scavenges for parts.

“Nice swordwork,” he says, nodding toward Tucker. “Where’d you get that?”

“Won it in a card game,” Tucker says, not missing a beat. He’s told Wash the story — about his time with the Blades of Valhalla, about how he really found the sword — but he isn’t so quick to share the story with others.

“You must be one hell of a card player.”

Tucker only shrugs, yanking out a tooth and pocketing it. They agree to make camp together one more more night before turning in the bounty in the morning. Wash feels uneasy — he doesn’t know if its the new moon, the lack of Selune’s light in the sky, or just who he is as a person, but he doesn’t trust Lucas as far as he can throw him.

In the morning they go into the neighboring town and turn in some scales and teeth as proof of their kill. Lucas starts divvying up the gold on the road and Wash thinks, for a moment, that maybe he’s just being a little paranoid. Maybe he’s just overreacting to the whole situation.

And then Rogers hits Tucker in the shoulder with a crossbow bolt.

“ _What the hell?_ ” Tucker doubles over, groaning with pain. He starts bleeding as Wash reaches over and yanks the bolt out, laying healing hands on the wound. As he looks up, four crossbows are pointed at them, and Lucas says, “Give us the sword.”

“ _Fuck_ that,” Tucker snarls.

Wash glances between them. “We _helped_ you.”

“Typical paladin,” Lucas says. “Thinks everyone can do the right thing. Idiot. Hand it over.”

“Waste of time,” Wash says. “Won’t matter if we do.”

“Just give it to us and we don’t fill the two of you full of holes.”

Wash stands and sighs. “I can’t do that,” he says.

“I think you can.”

He shakes his head. “No. I really can’t.”

Lucas scowls and readies his crossbow. “ _Do it_. Or I kill you myself.”

Wash shrugs. “Well,” he says. “You can certainly try.”

Lucas growls at him and Wash feels the bolt pierce his own shoulder before he even registers that it’s been fired, but —

He weathers the shot and holds out his hand.

Being born a tiefling has always come with its cons and setbacks. It took him longer to be accepted into his old Order, took him longer to gain the trust of the other members. People always look twice before choosing to trade with him, and he’s seen shopkeeps guard their tills just a bit closer when he’s around.

But this — fire and heat extending from his hands, his fiendish nature making itself known — well, nothing really beats that.

Lucas is fast, but he isn’t fast to dodge Wash’s flames. They ingulfe him, and he tumbles back, screaming and rolling on the ground. Wash turns to the others and they drop their weapons.

“We’ll take that hundred gold now,” he says, and extends a smoldering hand.

* * *

Wash and Tucker both look like hell when they shuffle into a little town called Delia that night.

Tucker groans and falls back on one of the beds in the room they’ve rented. “ _Fuck._ ”

“Still hurts.”

“Yeah, but I can take care of it.” He whistles a little tune and and sighs. “That blew.”

“Yeah, but hey—” Wash holds up the bag. “Fifty each?”

“Hell yeah.” Money is enough to get Tucker off the bed. They sit on the floor and count out their earnings. Tucker glances up. “Hey, uh, what you did today—”

“Won’t happen again,” Wash says quickly.

“Dude, what?” Tucker stops counting and laughs. “Do it _more_ , is what I’m trying to say. That was amazing. I’ve never had a friend who was a tiefling before.”

Wash pauses. “A friend.”

“Well...sure. We’ve been through some stuff together already, right? I think I’d call us friends.”

Wash nods. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess so.”

Tucker grins. “Anyway, that was bad ass. You spoke some language when you did it, what was that.”

“...Infernal,” Wash says.

“ _Nice._ It sounded cool, you gotta teach me a few things.”

“Sure.” Wash scoops his fifty coins into a bag.

Tucker does the same to his own and stands. “I’m gonna figure out where a guy bathes around here. Be back in a bit.” He heads out of the room and Wash collapses onto his own bed after he’s gone. He traces the edge of Caboose’s symbol with his thumb and closes his eyes.

Sheila told him terrible things were coming. She told him to protect Tucker, protect himself. He wonders if she wants him to find Caboose, and then his mind wanders to where Caboose might be.

Safe, he hopes. Caboose had left them at the camp without a proper goodbye, but he’d understood why he couldn’t.

_If he’s out there, let him know we’ll find him again. Let him know we’re thinking about him._

_Let him know I haven’t wasted his gift._

 

* * *

 

Caboose stares up at the sky, dark without the moon. He misses it, when it gone. But his mother always told him — _she is never really gone, only in shadow._

“Hello, shadow,” he murmurs, and touches his holy symbol. “Hello, Sheila.”

No one speaks to him, but he does feel comforted. Delta hums from his place in the grass.

“ _We still have some ways to go before we find him._ ”

“Yeah…”

“ _We could always turn back. We could return to your home._ ”

Caboose rolls to his side. “We’ll keep going,” he says. “This is what I need to do.”

“ _Of course, Caboose. Whatever you need_ ,” he adds. “ _I will be here._ ”

Caboose smiles and reaches out to touch the hilt of the sword.

“Thank you, Delta.”

As he closes his eyes, he says a prayer —

And hears a twig snap, just behind him.

“Delta—”

“ _Yes._ ”

Caboose grabs the sword and is on his knees, blade drawn in seconds. He doesn’t see anything in the darkness, which doesn’t make sense, but Delta says, “ _I believe they may not be visible to us._ ”

“Well that’s silly.” Caboose stands, closes his eyes and listens.

Silence, now.

He sighs, but he’s not getting any sleep tonight. He sits up and adds more wood to his fire.

“ _I believe it was him._ ”

“He got the jump on us.”

“ _Yes, but he didn’t attack._ ”

“That is true,” Caboose says quietly.

“ _...Should we stay here? Perhaps it would be safer to go into a town_.”

“The roads are dangerous at night,” Caboose murmurs. “Close to witching hours.”

“ _He might make himself known again._ ”

“He might.” Caboose looks up at the sky.

At least the stars are visible tonight.

* * *

As the sun rises, Caboose manages to get a few hours of sleep. He’s woken by the sound of an approaching cart on the road near his camp, and he packs quickly and gets a ride into the nearest town. He needs to find a temple of Selune. A big one. A priest of Sune tells him there is a large one in Zhentil’s Keep, which is three day’s journey easy. Delta recommends he join a caravan, offer to hunt and pay them some gold to travel along with them to the city.

He meets a young man who goes by Smith, traveling with his friends to the east.

“We’re trying to get to Calimport,” he explains. “Could use a hunter on the way there.”

“I’ll do what I can,” Caboose says.

He stays quiet for most of the journey, though he is desperate for the kind of banter he hears. Smith drives the cart while his friend Bitters navigates. A girl, Katie, offers Caboose some bread and cheese. They make camp each night and Caboose takes first watch each time. While the others are sleeping, he talks softly to Delta, telling him his plans.

“ _It could be dangerous._ ”

“Yes, it will be. But it is what we should do.”

“ _I trust you, Caboose._ ”

Caboose nods. “Thank you.”

* * *

When he finally reaches Zhentil’s Keep, he pays Smith and bids the little group goodbye.

“Um, sir?”

Caboose assumes Smith is talking to him, but no one’s really _ever_ called him “sir” before. “Mmm, yes?”

“We, um...we heard you talking. To your sword.” Caboose puts a hand on Delta without thinking and Smith shakes his head quickly. “Oh! Don’t worry, that’s fine with us. It just...it seems like you’re trying to do something dangerous.”

“...Ah.”

“And, um…”

Katie says, “We want you to be very careful.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” Smith puts a hand on his shoulder. “And if you need us, well...we think you’ll be able to find us.” He smiles and gestures for them to all get back into the cart. Caboose watches them head back onto the road, his grip on Delta tightening.

“ _Alone again._ ”

“Yes....better that way,” he says, and heads into the city.

* * *

Selune’s temple here is very big. Bigger than any temple he’s ever seen. A pearl moon sits at the top of a very large dome, and Caboose is in _awe._ He has never seen anything like this before and, for a moment, he doesn’t want to go in.

“ _You are worthy_ ,” Delta says so only Caboose can hear.

Caboose’s cheeks flush. He sometimes doesn’t like that Delta knows exactly what he’s been thinking, but he climbs the steps into the temple all the same. "Stay out here," he says to Freckles, and scratches behind his ears. "I won't be long."

A young woman sees his holy symbol and ushers him inside, offering him food and drink. Caboose accepts and enjoys the attention for a bit.

“Is there anything I can do for you today, brother?”

“Ah. Um, I need to speak with someone. About a spell.”

The acolyte nods. “Then you will want to speak to sister Grey.” She bows and steps out of the room. Caboose sips his juice and takes in the room. There is a large mural of Selune reaching down and bestowing a weapon to a young woman. Caboose stands and goes to the mural, touching it.

The woman has pointed ears, like his own, and a blue tunic, like his.

“That is Thymara,” someone says. Caboose turns and sees a woman standing in the doorway, grinning. “And you are Caboose.”

“...How—”

“I know a whole _lot_ of things, _ivaebhin._ ”

Caboose moves closer toward her. “Are you Sister Grey?” She nods. “I need to know a spell. I need to learn—”

“You are trying to scry.”

“Yes.”

“You’re playing with something _dangerous_ , Caboose.” She claps her hands together. “That’s exciting!” She goes to him and takes his hand, pulling him from the room. “Come! Let’s get to work right away. Clear my schedule!” she shouts as she tugs him into another room and closes the door. The walls are lined with books and knick-knacks, little things Caboose has never seen before in his life.

“Um—”

“Here.” She points to a chair and it scoops him up on its own. Caboose grins.

He _loves_ magic.

“So you want to scry on someone. Well, I can certainly help you do that, but you must ask Her for permission, of course. The Moonmaiden doesn’t just _give_ magic away.” Grey looks him up and down, then nods. “Right. You’ll need to be purified, first. Get you out of those clothes.”

“I need to be what?”

But Grey is already pulling him out of the chair, now, and into the hall, down a few turns before they step into a room with a large fountain in it. “Clothes off!”

“But I — hey!” He jerks away as Grey takes a dagger and tears a line in the back of his tunic. “M-my mom made this for me!”

“And it will be cleaned and mended. Now, get naked.”

“ _But_ —” Grey snaps her fingers and a few spectral servants appear, tugging at his belt and trousers, undoing Delta from his side. “My sword!”

“It will be safe with me.”

“No, I need him—”

Grey raises a brow, but doesn’t give Delta back. “I’ll keep... _him_ safe,” she says.

And suddenly Caboose is very naked. He instinctively covers himself, but Grey isn’t even looking. “Into the fountain,” she says and opens the door, passing Caboose’s things off to someone else. She glances over her shoulder and jerks her chin. “Fountain, boy. You don’t have all day.”

Caboose glances at the fountain, then back at Grey. She is closing the door behind her, and Caboose isn’t really sure what he’s supposed to do, apart from step into the frigid water. He hisses, pulling back at first.

_No. I have to do this._

The fountain is deeper than it looks, stopping at his waist. He shivers in the cold and waits for someone to come, but...no one does. For several minutes he waits, adjusting to the water. Gods, his hair is dirty. He doesn’t know if getting his hair wet in the fountain is something he’s _supposed_ to do, but...it couldn’t hurt. He takes a breath and ducks under the freezing water —

And he isn’t in the fountain anymore.

He is somewhere else, somewhere _far_ away from the fountain and the temple and his whole entire world.

His nakedness is trivial, compared to all this. A great blue sea stretches out ahead of him, toward a rocky island with a single white building perched on top.

 _That’s where I need to go_ , he thinks, and starts walking. The sea stays solid under his feet as he walks across the water toward the island, taking a set of winding stone stairs around it. He should be cold, he reasons, but he isn’t. He is very warm, and very happy.

Because he thinks he knows where he is, now.

At the top of the island, the white building looms large in front of him. It’s a very large gazebo, he realizes, as he steps inside. In the center is a pool of water, and Caboose spots large white fish swimming in it.

“Hello,” he murmurs, and touches the surface of the pool, watching the ripples travel across it.

“Hello, Caboose.”

He looks up with a start, and finds himself staring at the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen.

“ _Sheila_ —”

She laughs. “You _found_ me.” She goes to him, taking his face in her hands and kissing his forehead. “Caboose, you _found_ me, I’m so—”

“Sheila.” An ethereal voice pierces their moment. “Is that him?”

“ _Yes_ , m’lady. Yes, it is.”

“Bring him up, then.”

Sheila grins and grabs Caboose’s hand. “She’s been waiting for you.”

“...Who?” he asks, even though he already knows the answer.

Sheila glances at him and laughs. “ _Her_ ,” she says. “Our Lady. Our _Moonmaiden_.” Sheila takes him up another winding staircase to a room at the top of the gazebo.

Caboose sighs as he sees her, as he takes in the sight of the goddess he has loved and served his whole life.

“ _Selune._ ”

**Author's Note:**

> blue team:  
> church: elf/necromancer; tucker: human/bard; caboose: half-elf/ranger-cleric
> 
> red team:  
> grif: half-orc/fighter-paladin; simmons: elf/druid, donut: human/bard; sarge: human/artificer; doc: half-elf/cleric
> 
> freelancers:  
> wash: tiefling/paladin; carolina: elf/paladin; tex: half-elf/rogue; florida: human/cleric-rogue; connie: human/rogue


End file.
